


A Taste

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Surprisingly Little Angst, Translation From A Personal Fic, Well one, boys falling in love, pop culture references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 04:31:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5234180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock can't get these ideas out of his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Taste

**Author's Note:**

> Another exercise for me. Have fun kids.

 

 

                                                             

 

 

Yes he was lazy, but only with things that were boring. Paying the bills, cleaning the flat, and... _manners_ , were all incredibly tedious, and best left to others who seemed to have a higher regard for those sorts of things. For some reason, however, it amused him to teach his upper-level dwelling flatmate things. It was pretty odd, probably residual sentiment from back when he was dead and missed the stupidest things, like Lestrade having the least amount of incompetence, Mrs. Hudson's nattering, John's... He never let himself finish that thought since his return. It was pointless. He only needed to watch the stupid videos or pictures John would send to his phone just to annoy him. Once the former Army doctor got past the whole... punching him every time he showed up... thing. Sherlock had to start saving the photos on his laptop in order to free up space for important things like crime scenes and... well... that was it.

 

John wasn't at all dull about the subject matter, despite having little idea what Sherlock was talking about more than fifty percent of the time, and celebrating the smallest of triumphs. All he'd admit to himself was that John's triumphant expressions at grasping the simplest concepts made him smile in spite of himself. He could usually suppress it until later, when he was alone, or at least out of John's presence. Sometimes, however, he had to turn his head and let it eek out at tiny intervals. It was ridiculous and annoying. 

 

Especially the way that he now gravitated to John's room when the boredom was beginning to be too much. There hadn't been a case in days, the heatwave stagnating even the criminals it seemed. Also it was the fact that when John  _finally_  got home, he wasn't the least bit surprised to find Sherlock stretched, out on his bed in his pajamas and thinking pose. Sherlock had long since discarded his dressing gown, John's higher quarters gathering heat from within and without, despite light blocking curtains. Before laying down, Sherlock clicked on the fan wedged into the open window and that helped. A bit. 

 

For God's sake, he could smell him.

 

It wasn't the usual way John smelled in Summer, a slight undertone of clean sweat with the straightforward toiletries he preferred to use on his body and hair. He'd been engaged in some sort of strenuous exercise. It wasn't body odor per-se, more like his blood was still up, his skin, the Summer sun having painted it with a light golden sheen when he'd begun helping Sherlock with experiments on the roof as soon as the season came in(some part of his therapy), was probably flushed slightly pink. John's eyes were probably flashing sapphires, as they often seemed to darken when he was in this state. But his smell was the worst thing, because it seemed to contain some sort of pheromone Sherlock had yet to isolate. Or build an immunity to.

 

"You've joined a gym," he said without opening his eyes, sitting up, or moving his hands, palms pressed flat together and poised just below his chin. 

 

"What gave it away? The the logo on my bag or the work out clothes?" John asked smugly after a sigh someone may have interpreted as 'fond'. Sherlock did sit up then, and the reality of what John looked like was infinitely more disgraceful than anything he could have imagined. That he was constantly surprised by this was irritating. The silvering honey of John's hair spoke of constant fingers being pushed through it due to perceived discomfort associated with a missed hair cut. He sported an olive drab tank top and Arsenal red football shorts, the team's crest a patch on the right leg near the hem. The fact that Sherlock recognized just the symbol made him inwardly flinch, though he was soothed by the rest of his senses exercise in non-visual deducing through sound and smell.

 

"Also you ran home and, if you recall, I never actually saw you today," he said in a way that was matter-of-fact, but would no doubt be interpreted as rude. John was now taking off his brand new blue and white trainers and socks.

 

"Oh God, do I really smell that badly?" God, no. He meant yes. No.

 

"'Strongly' is a more apt description." That was the absolute truth.

 

"Ugh," John groaned, sucking his teeth, completely misinterpreting per the usual. "Good thing I'm for the shower anyway, before I have to entertain you." John was subtly engaging in military habit. Everything had a precise place and positioning within its space. His washing went in a hamper that was emptied once a week like clockwork. He sprayed some sort of sanitizer in the footwear he'd just used, admittedly a habit he began after becoming friends with Sherlock.

 

"What? Entertain me?" 

 

"The only reason you come up here is because you know I'm more likely to listen to you bitch and moan until you fucking make me attempt to entertain you. Do you need a swab of my arm pit or something before I shower?" Good idea, actually. Perhaps he could find out what was so alluring to him about John's scent in particular. Interesting. He meant interesting, not alluring.

 

"Must have been referred by someone in the military." John stilled at that one. Sherlock attempted to return to his original position, but couldn't bring himself to close his eyes.

 

"How could you possibly know that?"

 

"You told me about a younger man you met in the pub two nights ago. Mentioned some regrets over how fit you used to be. Not difficult to assume you'd discussed his regime and, as you love a good bargain judging by your almost comical fashion sense, there had to have been a military discount for you to even consider it. The closing factor for you was that the place is frequented and staffed by military personnel. You were right at home."

 

"Fantastic!" Sherlock's eye roll was purely for show, a motion to mask how much he'd missed such praise from this particular person. So much so, that it gave him an absurd thrill that sometimes manifested outwardly. This time it was goose bumps. Absurd. "Besides, you always swear more when you've been around military people in a casual setting," he said with a reluctant little smirk, to cover his defensiveness. "So crass."

 

"You're one to talk about crass behaviour," John mentioned, lowering his mostly empty bag in its place by the wardrobe and gathering fresh pants, a towel, and his familiar blue dressing gown with the lighter vertical stripes. he was paying attention to his words, now, censoring himself. Sherlock didn't much care for that.

 

"Touche." Sherlock had at some point gotten to his feet, automatically following him down into the kitchen. John lay his acquisitions on the chair closest to the stove, extracted a plastic grocery bag from the fridge, and Sherlock stood, leaning back against the lip of the sink to watch emphatically as John placed it on the worktop.

 

"Anything toxic in this?" John asked, cautiously sniffing the blender.

 

"What? Uh, no. Not that I recall."

 

"I'm going to need a better answer than that, Sherlock. I'm about to use it for its intended purpose and it would be lovely to know if I'm in danger of contracting anything."

 

"No," Sherlock said finally, a bit annoyed that John didn't realize that he'd never put him in actual danger in their own home. It was a sanctuary of sorts, despite the many crimes which took place there. Some of them, Sherlock wasn't even responsible for.

 

"Right," John nodded, and washed it again anyway before he began tearing up leaves of spinach and kale. Sherlock was rapt as John pushed a strawberry in his mouth to be held between his teeth as he picked the stems off of others and tossed them into the container with the greens. He continued his bite in order to be able to ask, "Have you used that spoon in the drainer since this morning?" Sherlock was having a lot more trouble than necessary taking his eyes off of the bit of strawberry juice beading on John's bottom lip. Only his name, called in a sharp tone, brought words back to him.

 

"Uh... no. I haven't used it."

 

"Do you mind?" Again, coherent thought was difficult as John got the drip with his tongue. He was pointing with his dominant left hand.

 

"What?"

 

"For fuck's sake," he mumbled, reaching around Sherlock to retrieve the utensil himself. Sherlock got a good whiff of his hair, then and nearly fled. Instead he made his way around to the the other side of the table and sat in the empty chair there. John's eyes followed him a moment before turning back to what he was presently doing, which was getting the lid and plastic seal off of a container of plain Greek yoghurt. He spooned several heaps into the blender and topped everything off with a small container of coconut water. Sherlock had something to say about the brand used that he couldn't quite recall, as his mind was working independently of his mouth because John had vigorously stirred the container's contents, muscles in his back flexing, backside... jiggling with his movements...

 

This was ludicrous. 

 

John finished with a generous dollop of raw honey, gathering some that had dripped and sucking it off of his finger as he put the lid on and started it up. Sherlock's mind unhelpfully supplied flashbacks of his fantasies when he was Away, in a manner not unlike the headache one gets when one consumes something extremely cold too quickly. Pulsing images of sucking honey off of bits of John and vice versa caused him to press the ball of his hand to the center of his high forehead. John's immediate concern didn't help. And by didn't help, he meant was exactly the right thing to make the thoughts continue. 

 

He left the blender roaring on its highest setting and rushed to Sherlock, only having to bend a little to get a look at his face. In the gently commanding way he had, John begged him to let him see, asking if something hit him somehow or if he'd been getting these headaches often, etc. Sherlock couldn't get the words out that it wasn't actually a headache when John was pressing cool fingers to his temples, stroking the brow bone, standing so close and smelling like-

 

He grabbed John's hands and pushed them away. The doctor thankfully backed up a bit. "Headaches can be a serious symptom, Sherlock. Especially in light of some of the things you've been through-"

 

"I said I'm fine!"

 

"Fine! Keep your tumor."

 

"It's not a tumor, John."

 

"Yeah well, probably not. Still, no need to be a dick about it. Well of course look who I'm talking to," John groused on his way to shut off the blender and pour two tumblers full of the verdant concoction. He almost slammed it down in front of Sherlock, murmuring something about how the nutrients wouldn't hurt his 'scrawny, pale arse' either. Sherlock said nothing and, by way of apology, downed the drink with John. It was actually quite pleasant tasting. He was already coming up with experiments having to do with ingredients when John collected his empty glass to rinse them out and find a container in which to store the leftovers. 

 

"So what did you learn today?" 

 

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock almost never just asked, but this situation was getting away from him and he wouldn't have it.

 

"The way you're moving, you're still trying to hide how much you're aching. Therefore you must have done some sparring," he noted. "So what did you learn?"

 

"I... not much really," John admitted, smiling that annoyingly gorgeous little smile he had when he found Sherlock fascinating. Which was often. "It's still pretty much the standard holds, sweeps, and throws."

 

"Show me." What was he even saying? 

 

"Sherlock, I haven't even showered yet."

 

"Which is perfect timing because you'll just sweat again. Besides, you promised to entertain me. Show me," he said again, softer than he meant to. John gave him a long, rather wary look.

 

"Right. Well we'll have to do this in my bedroom. There's more bare floor and we won't disturb Mrs. Hudson."

 

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson is already disturbed," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. John had to stop in the middle of pouring so he wouldn't spill everything for the boyish laughter they burst out into. It was sort of the way of their relationship, now, more than ever, a constant flux of rising tension and the breaking of it. "I'll meet you up there," John said, once they'd calmed a bit. 

 

After he'd moved John's bed, a double that was one of very few luxuries he allowed himself due to his rather spartan personality, its owner showed in the doorway, explaining how he'd thought twice, then locked the doors to the sitting room. The slightly older man said nothing of the paracetamol he'd taken. John even shut the bedroom door as Sherlock tried to determine what kind of music would serve best as a soundtrack. He struck out with the classical, John giving him a look that must have been an exact replica of how he looked at people when they were being a particular brand of idiot. Apparently, John had made a new playlist to go along with his new exercise regimen. It seemed it was, and he used the term loosely, music whose purpose was to excite and motivate a crowd. Lots of electric guitars and shouted 'lyrics'.

 

John could of course more than hold his own, but Sherlock had the benefit of studying martial arts and self-defence techniques they didn't teach in the Army. If it was a basic street brawl, the consulting detective knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that John would win. The compact captain could be brutal if given half a chance, hence Sherlock knowing that John had actually been holding back every time he'd punched him in the beginning. Sherlock took this opportunity to incorporate some of John's moves into his own repertoire and impart knowledge on how John could improve some of his moves. 'So that the young bucks wouldn't be able to throw him around quite as much'. This unintentional slight actually motivated John to take him down hard using his own move against him. This was going to bruise nicely, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to care as John sat up on top of him to cheer himself, arms in the air, chest out, sliver of belly showing as well as miles of creamy leg. 

 

Sherlock's body was reacting before he knew what was going on.

 

His hands had been resting on John's bulky thighs as they both breathed heavily and stared at each other. For a moment, Sherlock forgot he wasn't wanking in some shitty hovel in some little 'istan' country hoping against hope to get himself a tiny bit of relief from his dire situation. John's eyes said it all. Even in the dim light of the afternoon sun peeking through the cracks in the curtains, deliberately to let in enough light by which to see, Sherlock could see they were mostly pupil and  _that_  colour again. His charming lips were slightly parted, and he could practically see John's heart rate rise in his neck. 

 

But John was still... confused? Yes. Sherlock had actually seen this look on his friend several times, and not just in his mind's eye. Of course John would never do anything about it. Despite his ability to acquire it, he wasn't really one for casual sex as a personal choice. Sherlock knew John wasn't gay, but, according to some of the things he saw when he was bored and alone and hacked John's private journal, out there, in the middle of all that war, dividers were broken down. They had to be, because whenever they rose again, so did other problems. The easiest thing for everyone was to, whenever and however they could manage, eliminate them for a brief moment's peace. Whether it was a cigar and whisky saturated card game with people that possibly didn't speak the same language, or an orgasm at the hands(or mouth)of a living, breathing person other than one's self.

 

John was still, for all intents and purposes, a soldier. His hair may have grown out a bit, and his uniform may have morphed from fatigues to hideous jumpers and comfortably(nicely)fitting jeans, but he was doing the same job. Protecting. Serving the greater good as part of a group, getting into a bit of bother along the way, but he loved it really. Sherlock wanted, more than anything, to be able to provide him that moment's peace, as he'd already supplied him with a war, the one for the streets of London. 

 

He also knew he wouldn't be able to stop giving John orgasms for the rest of his life, if he got started. He couldn't even fathom him returning the favour right now. All that mattered was the precipice on which they dangled, John not even aware of how Sherlock was already over it and trying to figure out how to pull him along. 

 

"Did you bang your head or something and need to go to the A&E?" Sherlock blinked at John's question a few times.

 

"What?"

 

"You had a headache and then began behaving a bit abnormally."

 

"I'm not having an aneurysm."

 

"How do you know? You're not the doctor here." Sherlock sighed deeply, still neither one moved an inch. He was acutely aware of his hips between John's thighs and how bloody hard he was. Not that he was concerned with size or anything so asinine, but didn't John  _feel_  that? Unless he was doing as he always did, consciously or no, which was to not acknowledge potentially embarrassing details, such as getting a hard on whilst grappling with your flatmate. He must have attributed it to the activity. Men got erections all the time in high-adrenaline situations. 

 

"Because there's not enough blood in my brain at the moment." There. Blatant. That was more him.

 

"Sherlock-"

 

"Please." What he was begging for exactly he hadn't much of an idea. In what he recognized as acquiescence, John slid off of him to lay beside his left arm, head turning toward the dark underside of his bed. No. Not this way. "John stay with me," he said, hating the pleading edge to his voice. But it got him to turn his face back. "There we are," he said quietly. "Hello."

 

"Hi."

 

"Come back here." Sherlock pinched the sleeve of John's tee shirt between his thumb forefinger and tugged slightly. John rolled onto his right shoulder before propping himself up onto his forearm to look down at Sherlock. John had once called him a machine and, with no actual explanation of why he faked his death, Sherlock had done little(on purpose anyway)to deviate from that assessment past the actual jump. His returned rendered everything null and void and now John was just so... unsure. And it wasn't like him at all to be so. It was disheartening. "I won't hurt you," Sherlock said. Then added, at John's skeptical eyebrow, "Not in this way. Never in this way." If he was honest with himself, Sherlock couldn't tell who was trembling the hardest between the two of them when John lowered his mouth to his.

 

He didn't close his eyes until John closed his, which was long seconds into the kiss. It was everything; everything John had just consumed including parts of his soul, honey and fruit, and veg, and finally, and yes. When Sherlock pulled back a bit to assess him, John's eyes remained closed tightly. Sherlock reached up to lightly stroke the dear face hovering above him. John was thinking that so much needed to be discussed before they went here, but Sherlock knew already. "Don't," he murmured, kissing one eye, then the other. "I promise I won't go any further than you wish."

 

"I don't...," John took several deep breaths and looked away. "I... I don't know how you knew... or..." He then took a long cleansing breath. "I was always... giving... rather than receiving. In situations like these. Back then." 

 

"Whatever you want, John," Sherlock said, meaning it more than anything he'd ever said in his life. This was the One, the only person who understood him if not his own self. But that was Sherlock's job, then and now more than ever. John smiled then and the damn cracked. Sherlock had the most difficult time reigning in his ardor during the kissing. He didn't want him overwhelmed with the act, but with Sherlock, with feeling him. If John felt even a fraction of what he did then he would want to lose himself in him the way Sherlock was already in him. By the time the kiss broke a second time, his shirt was pushed up, exposing a chest Sherlock had only imagined, but he still kept himself from looking anywhere but John's eyes, caressing the already taught nipples, manually mapping out the shape, size, how the skin there was different from skin somewhere else, how John's breathing changed when Sherlock stroked whatever bits at different speeds with different pressures. But he stopped altogether at the edges of the scar in John's left shoulder. He wanted to make sure that John would be concentrating on his words. "If you want me to stop, tell me to stop. It doesn't matter how far into it we are, alright?" John nodded languidly, already deeper into his own desire than he'd ever imagined. "John!" His eyes came into focus once more. "If you need me to stop, tell me."

 

"Okay," John agreed, taking his lips before he had a chance to say anything else, sucking on his tongue in a manner that made them both moan a little in response to each other.

 

Then they were both topless, chest to chest, deeply into each other's mouths, their legs slotted comfortably. The way John clutched at him and rocked his hips slightly down into his all but drove Sherlock over the edge already. He had to begin his descent in order to keep it together for long enough to get John off at least once. He was so glad he shaved that day for seemingly no reason. Sherlock had read something about unpleasantness akin to rug burn back in that time and place.

 

He had John roll over onto his back, and it was then that he got his first eyeful of John's torso. He looked up at his face and saw that John was going away again, becoming embarrassed about his scar and, if the new health kick was to be believed, probably his weight, though he was perfect. He was stocky and soft and firm in all the right places. Also his scar, all of them really, were just the thing. Sherlock could spend hours on  _the_  bullet wound alone. It looked like a tiny meteor crater, the flesh around it pushed up and out of the very pink center by the impact. But now wasn't the time for detailed exploration. Sherlock put a pin in it, after spending a moment unabashedly tasting it. He then spent long minutes on his delectable neck and chest, getting the exact right pressure and swipe to make John groan in blatantly building pleasure.

 

John wore crimson Y-fronts trimmed in white that day, which, upon removal, revealed the light gold and and silver hairs sprouting from it. They were neatly trimmed the night before so that it was a perfect frame for a substantial cock, a light toast colour and magnificently engorged. A tentative bead of clear fluid had formed and Sherlock momentarily didn't know whether to keep looking or taste, incensed that he couldn't do both at once. Finally he began kissing around it, John's inner thighs trembling a little at his lips' light caresses. Sherlock firmed them up a bit, then gave the base a simple open-mouthed one. When he looked up, those eyes were on his. Good. John was present. Even when he closed his eyes to the sensations and started making the sweetest little noises in the back of his throat, John was with him in a way he wouldn't have been with anyone else performing this act. John was grabbing at his hair, trying not to pull it out of his head with strong, capable hands or shove himself too hard down Sherlock's throat, choking him to death. Sherlock could think of worse ways to go, if he was honest.  

 

After a few minutes, Sherlock figured out John was still more concerned with hurting him as well as being so exposed. So he eliminated the obvious by letting John close his legs before pushing his face back home, roaming hands settling for a combination of stroking, fondling, and precise manipulation of John's nipples. He tasted divine, slaking a thirst Sherlock had no idea was so severe, a need for John's body to be willingly given over to him in pleasure. John was trying to keep his voice contained, almost comically surprised when it came out louder than intended. For the last of it, Sherlock pushed fingers into his mouth alternately, the sight of John taking them in without hesitation making him rut against John's rather smooth, trembling leg, the friction delicious with a combination of what was now proper sweat and pre-ejaculatory fluid.

 

At precisely the right moment, Sherlock pulled with his fingers and mouth, flicked his tongue and finger tips, and, with a curse and strange combination of a whisper and a moan of his name, there it was. He'd gotten John over the edge, bucking his rather lovely hips so that Sherlock had to move his face back to avoid choking. He just couldn't bear to be separated from John's delectable skin, and so set to work kissing his way back up until he could gather his new lover to him. John clutched at him, squeezed him, shaking so hard it rattled his teeth. Words and kisses poured directly from Sherlock's heart in an unstoppable manner, denoting how exquisite John was, how beautiful, how clever and good he was. If it had been anyone else, if they had been much further into their relationship, he wouldn't have hesitated in preparing and plunging himself inside John to the hilt or, more likely, vice-versa, and been finished way too quickly with the image of how he looked whilst in the throws of orgasm forever burned into his mind.

 

But John was currently close to weeping and Sherlock had no idea what to do about it. So he held him tightly, ignoring his own only slightly less powerful erection. Then they were frantically kissing again, Sherlock on top, John dipping sure fingers past the waist band of his pyjama bottoms enticingly in back. He knew he had very little control over his mind when he didn't realize how John's hands wandered, only that they were touching him and touching him was precisely what they should be doing all the time. Except he was pushed onto his back and John pressed his nudity to Sherlock's side and licked his neck as he stroked him furiously with a combination of organic lubricators. The only indication he was breathing was his uncontrollable moans of John's name and 'Yes' and 'So good. Oh God how is just this simple thing so good?' John had gotten his free hand up into Sherlock's hair to grip lightly and flicked his right nipple with his tongue. Then, dropping his mouth down over it, John continued the flicking in combination with a sucking very similar to how Sherlock had done it elsewhere. His hand gave a little twist at the top of Sherlock's shaft, then began going agonizingly slowly, massaging the completely exposed head with his thumb until Sherlock thought he would go mad, but nearly shouted with a sudden sharp release. John caressed him gently through it, letting him fiercely take his mouth with his once again and letting go of him just as he was about to become oversensitive.

 

He had actually considered telling John that he didn't have to return the favour yet, that all he'd wanted was his pleasure, but it would have seemed forced. Sherlock had wanted him just as badly, the whole thing exponentially worsened by how he looked coming for the first time as a result of what was being done. John didn't owe him, by any stretch of the imagination, but they were both willing and in their right minds, more or less, and so he'd allowed it to continue.

 

Sherlock reached out without looking, grasping the edge of his tee shirt wherever it had been tossed, and dragged it over to clean off John's hand, which rested in the pool of the mess he'd made, some of it having even reached his chin. John was good enough to lick that off and, if he hadn't already  _just_  experienced a most spectacular orgasm, he would have been ready to go again, no matter how long a second one would take. He could hardly help the little breathy moan that escaped him when John did so. Sherlock chuckled a little bit as their breathing regulated, finding it difficult to stop kissing him until John did so first, dropping his head onto his shoulder.

 

"I can't believe that just happened," John murmured.

 

"Don't start getting awkward," he warned. "We both wanted this. I knew what I was getting into before we even started."

 

"You'll change your mind. You find my romantic affection unbearable." He put his hand under John's chin, causing the desired effect of lifting his eyes.

 

"Molly Hooper says I love it really."

 

"And what do  _you_  say?" 

 

"That I love you." It just came out. He tried to stare down at his mouth, confused with the confession, though he hadn't any idea when it was going to be said anyway.

 

"I hope so," was all John said, and they quietly held each other until his backside began numbing even in the plush rug that had been under the bed to save the wood floors. Also,

 

"I need a shower." He got to his feet and pulled his bottoms up before retrieving his dressing gown as John watched from a sitting position that had his knees drawn up to his chest. He looked like a photograph or a painting, nude but covered precisely by his positioning, hair wild. He pulled John by the hand to his feet and made a great show of looking him over appreciatively whilst helping him back on with his soiled work out clothes, forcing John's eyes back to his face whenever he would look away, embarrassed by something on which Sherlock's eyes lingered.

 

The doors were locked so there was no need to pause his reassuring kisses all the way down to the bathroom and turning on the water. They continued their lengthy snog back out in the kitchen, despite their mouths aching, returning a few minutes later to discover that something had fallen into the rather massive tub, blocking the drain and filling it with water almost as hot as they could stand it. The only cooling being the distance between the shower head and the tub. Sherlock preferred a bath anyway and, minutes later, was relaxing back against John's chest. Some part of his mind was panicking at how comfortable this all was, how much he craved touching and being touched by this creature, how much he desired John's comfort and approval. He also wanted to shag him through every surface possible, no matter what it took. Even if it was...  _marriage_.

 

John would avoid bringing the subject up for as long as possible, not even dropping hints as others would. But if he figured out how Sherlock non-consciously acquiesced to almost everything whilst he looked at him during kissing, all was lost. He'd already have a difficult time not giving John his heart's desire now, as it was.

 

Especially now that he was re-positioning them so that he straddled Sherlock's lap in order to kiss him and... wash his hair. By the time John finished, Sherlock was fully hard again, this time stubbornly refusing to permit anything to be done about it. He washed John as well, finishing up by giving him another orgasm at which he was again surprised. Sherlock had always enjoyed that, and almost gave in to further caresses. But John was hungry, and when that happened, he often made him extra portions or ordered things only he liked to prompt him to eat. Not that this was the reason, because Sherlock could deny himself for days at a time in the pursuit of the truth. No, John annoyingly wanted to eat all the time and could get rather cranky if he wasn't fed and watered regularly. Well John could also deny himself as well if it was necessary. But, when it wasn't, John's body would betray him, breaking down piece by piece and Sherlock couldn't have that. He may have to wait to actually get the man physically inside of him, but he would not be idle in taking advantage of this new level of their relationship. He was positive it would even make him more amenable to his experiments.

 

He convinced John to wash again(slowly)by way of a shower whilst he watched, and couldn't help stroking himself to the vision of him, rubbing soap all over his gorgeous body. That body brought Sherlock back up and over the brink and he begged a kiss before rinsing quickly and following him out.

 

It seemed a test, seeing how long they could keep their hands off of each other. Their present record was four minutes. It took eight to order the takeaway because, halfway in, Sherlock began experimenting on John's hands, taking his meticulously cleaned and trimmed digits between lips he was often told were reminiscent of Cupid's bow, tonging the callous on his trigger finger and moaning helplessly in his softest tone at the raw power possessed therein.

 

After he finally hung up and could be kissed properly, John began breaking into giggles moments later.

 

"What? What is it?" Sherlock was only mildly irritated but, as John had blurted once, he was a drama queen. His brand new lover took it as such per the usual.

 

"Just..." John laughed some more, "It's not a tumor..." Then John lowered his voice as deeply as possible and did the worst rendition of a non-British Western-European accent Sherlock had ever heard. He couldn't even determine a country of origin. "Is nawt a toomah!" John then made his way to his chair and collapsed into it, laughing himself to tears. Sherlock had absolutely no idea. "Bring me my laptop," John commanded. Sherlock was obeying before he even realized it, even sitting in John's lap when he was physically directed into it. It was oddly comfortable and comfort _ing_. Sherlock leaned back as John balanced the computer on his thigh. He then proceeded to watch a Youtube video forwarded to the bit where a massively muscled 'actor', obviously from Southeast Austria, was having issues dealing with a classroom full of small children. 

 

The funniest thing was that Sherlock was laughing along with John after the line was uttered. The majority of the film's elements were abhorrent, but John...  _made_  it amusing. 

 

This realization unfortunately lead to yet more viewing choices made by John, both mind-numbing and mildly interesting in which Sherlock happily engaged. If just for a taste of him. 

**Author's Note:**

> For those who don't know, the line John's so very amused by is from a film called Kindergarten Cop, starring Arnold Schwarzenegger. Here is the clip they watched:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ucfgdFrlho


End file.
